'Loudermilk' Is a Refreshing Comedy in an Unfunny Time
These days, it’s nearly impossible to create a new comedy film or television series. First, today’s media environment is globalized, and humor doesn’t translate well for non-American audiences. Second, streaming platforms usually want pre-written scripts before filming, which prevents writers from receiving audience feedback and reworking screenplays to make them better—a major sticking point in the WGA strikes last year. Third, thanks to social media, news cycles and trends have sped up so much that writing satire is next to impossible since jokes will inevitably seem dated and lame by the time the movie or show airs. Fourth, increased political and cultural polarization has drained comedy of its authenticity and wit. Rather than providing ironic down-to-earth commentary on the way real people live, most comedy now comes off like artificial propaganda that serves elite opinion. Fifth, even four years out, the Covid pandemic has effectively smothered all forms of levity in American culture—in general, people are grouchier and less in the mood to laugh.
Consequently, most comedies made in the last five years inevitably fail to gain much traction. They are often bland (Abbott Elementary), self-indulgent and cringey (Only Murders in the Building), or tedious and pretentious (Glass Onion). Some of them have their moments, but all of them are mostly irrelevant and forgettable—with the occasional South Park special being the main exception.
Fortunately, one new(ish) comedy that bucks this trend is Loudermilk. The first season was originally aired on cable while its second and third seasons were streamed on Amazon Prime. Last month, Netflix bought the rights to the show and started streaming all three seasons, quickly becoming one of the most watched series on the platform (similar to the television series Suits last year). So while it’s not technically new, it feels that way for the show’s more recent fans.
Created by veteran comedy writers Peter Farelly and Bobby Mort, Loudermilk takes place in Seattle, Washington and centers on Sam Loudermilk, a curmudgeonly former music critic who spends his days counseling recovering alcoholics, insulting random people, and drinking cup after cup of black coffee. The other main characters are the misfits in his support group, his roommate Ben, and Claire, a young woman he is tasked with mentoring. Much of the humor revolves around Loudermilk, a grungy Gen Xer, making his way in a Seattle transformed by uppity millennials and Zoomers.
On the whole, Loudermilk works as a comedy because it avoids the common pitfalls of most new shows by steering clear of politics and topical issues and focusing mainly on flawed characters seeking redemption. In this way, it conforms to Aristotle’s definition of comedy, “Comedy is … an imitation of characters of a lower type,” as well as Dr. Louise Cowan’s genre theory that characterizes comedy as a mountain that the characters ascend. As Loudermilk himself repeatedly declares, he and his associates are “f***ups” who might make mistakes, but nonetheless strive to live cleaner lives.
It helps enormously that the cast is so good. In his look and demeanor, Ron Livingston is perfect as a jaded middle-aged critic with a heart of gold. Will Sasso as the cheerful best friend and Anja Savcik as the immature Zoomer are excellent foils. Even the minor characters hold their own, like Brian Regan as Mugsy Bennigan, a dopey deadbeat father of ten, Ricky Blitt as New Guy, an emasculated whiney nerd working through his myriad insecurities, and even Ed, an old pervert who has the best jokes of the show.
It also helps that each plot line trends upward, and progression is made. While the show could have been a dark comedy with awful people doing awful things and going nowhere in life (i.e. Seinfeld), it instead opts for something more hopeful. Every so often, Loudermilk gets the girl, Ben comes in clutch, Claire grows up, and the other guys catch a break. Of course, as with recovering from addiction, there are relapses, but the characters become so endearing, the audience is always rooting for them.
Furthermore, Loudermilk manages to feature a diverse, representative cast without giving into tokenism. It achieves this elusive state by actually allowing these “diverse” characters to be flawed and therefore funny. Sure, a few people may take offense at seeing a person with Down Syndrome cussing out Loudermilk and working as a bagman for the mafia, or a boxing match involving a little person punching his opponent’s crotch, or an intense black man stalking and kidnapping a guy to “help” him with his presumed alcoholism. But the willingness to treat these characters like all the others goes much further in being inclusive than simply including them to sit there and be great at everything.
And, judging from a speech given by the character Roger Frostly in the third season, this was likely a conscious choice from the show’s writers. Born with undeveloped arms, Roger receives an award simply for having a disability and ends up telling a crowd of rich progressives the award is patronizing and objectifying. It’s a good moment in the show, even if a tad preachy.
However, it must be said that in this same season, Loudermilk has a few worrying missteps. While Farrelly and Mort keep the controversy and heavy-handedness refreshingly at bay for the first two seasons and much of the third season, a few of the episodes towards the end feel like they were hijacked by humorless woke scolds. Sadly, these moments effectively ruin Mugsy’s character as he is trying to reconnect with his daughter Cappy. Put briefly, Cappy is a brilliant engineer starting her career after college, but encounters wage discrimination. Being her inferior in every way, Mugsy is repeatedly forced to repent of his sexism and ignorance.
Even though Mugsy’s character arc seems unique to him, one has an eerie feeling that he is supposed to be a kind of stand-in for MAGA supporters, and his daughter is the dynamic progressive who has her life together. Though scant, there are a few other lines in the show that signal anti-Trump sentiment and give reason for thinking this was the intended idea with Mugsy’s evolution—a bit like how Ron Swanson wasn’t supposed to be a fan favorite in Parks and Recreation, Mugsy isn’t supposed to be liked by fans. If this is the case, a fourth season of the show could very well descend into constant woke messaging and predictable narratives.
If not, there is still fertile comedic ground for Farrelly and Mort to cultivate. Loudermilk and his band of misfits still have plenty of growing up to do, and the proudly woke city of Seattle is in desperate need of being satirized. Not only is the setup ideal, but the comedy television genre could really use some new material. After all, everyone will feel like a f***up sometimes, and Loudermilk should be there for them.
Auguste Meyrat is an English teacher in the Dallas area. He holds an MA in humanities and an MEd in educational leadership. He is the senior editor of The Everyman and has written essays for The Federalist, The American Conservative, and The Imaginative Conservative, as well as the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture. Follow him on Twitter.
